


regret, remorse (keep going)

by leukoplakiaa



Series: until - [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Azel (FE) had a mother too, Azel (FE) is here as an infant, Gen, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mutual Understandings, OC POV, OC isn't doing great but gets better., Victor is briefly here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:37:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24690151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leukoplakiaa/pseuds/leukoplakiaa
Summary: In a short span of time, Velthomer loses its duke and his wife disappears, leaving their son to rule and the duke's bastard from a maid. It wasn't suppose to be like this - maid without mistress, son without mother - but the only way was forward, together.
Series: until - [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926223
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15





	regret, remorse (keep going)

**Author's Note:**

> cw for: implied rape, domestic violence, and minor suicide - not descriptive or on-screen, but it is discussed.
> 
> title borrowed from 'my silver lining' by first aid

i.

_ It’s late again, _ Sunilda thought, mouth drying.

She scrubbed her skin until it was red, rag threatening to crumble in her hands, water scalding against her skin but never enough. The four finger-shaped bruises were gone, at last, though they held on for weeks, and she could touch her own body without weeping. Was she - ? It’d be her luck.

It was always her luck. Three more scrubs, four more, five more, but he was still there.

Dressing stiffly (dress equally rubbed raw to the point of fading), she ran her hands through her recently shorn hair, sun peaking through the window. She needed to head back today, didn’t she? Lady Cigyun would start asking if she stayed away too long; she’d been giving multiple reprieves over the past handful of weeks, but it wouldn’t last forever. Someone needed to know, didn’t they? The unfortunate horror, the dawning truth, the feeling of loneliness despite being one of many -

She stepped through the room she was supposed to share with her friend’s children (though her crying kept them up, Tasha scolded, so she’d taken to sleeping in the kitchen), tiptoeing around their sleeping bodies to grab her meager belongings. Lady Cigyun, even if she did not ask questions and gracefully gave her days reprieve at a time, would need help eventually. She was a delicate woman who wasn’t expected to make her own bed.

Tasha, up already, worked in the kitchen, preparing for the day, and she figured the husband left already. Tall, strong, and steadfast, Tasha was everything she wasn’t. “There’s porridge,” she said, elbow-deep in the oven. “And Meic wants you to help him with the pigs when you’re done.”

Helping with the pigs usually meant blood. Her nose crinkled. “I’m heading back to the manor. No pigs today.” Tasha’s stubborn shoulders tightened. “My mistress will ask about me if I’m gone too long.”

“Your mistress let you-”

Helping herself to half a bowl of porridge, heat of the oven near on her calves, she tried to defend Lady Cigyun. “She wasn’t around.” Her jaw felt sore yet. She’d never been good at taking blows. Tasha scoffed into the oven, so she didn’t count it as an affront. “She can’t protect me if she isn’t around.”

“You’re making excuses. Stop working there. You’re an idiot if you go back.” She winced. The tone wasn’t friendly – they weren’t kids anymore, but Tasha always looked out for her, older by a few summers and strong enough for the two of them. “You have a place here, not there, won’t even make you slaughter pigs,” she continued.

The porridge scalded her tongue. There was a life here, she knew: Tasha and Meic, their three children, a hope to repair the bridge between her and her parents. But, too, there was the new truth of her life now (unless it became a lie – let it be a lie). “I can’t-”

“-I know you’re useless at slaughtering pigs-”

“-stay here. I’m-”  _ the unthinkable, the unbearable gods he’s still -  _ “I’m – devoted to my mistress, I’m afraid. She is kind to me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m an idiot,” she agreed.

Something in her voice must have tipped Tasha off – her unnaturally blue eyes left the oven, settling on her face. Sunilda found a deep interest in her porridge. She wouldn’t be able to do it, really, if Tasha pushed. “Svan, if you’re going to start lying, don’t start on me,” she warned, standing up. Sleeves rolled back, tight with muscle, Tasha’d been  _ lucky  _ as a kid, towering over her. She knew Tasha. She was safe (safe even with Meic).

“’m not lying,” Sunilda promised, “I  _ am _ devoted to Lady Cigyun.” She wouldn’t talk with food in her mouth, so in went a spoonful of porridge.

Tasha sighed. “Don’t give me that  _ It’s not a lie cause its half a truth _ . You ain’t good at that either. What did he do to you?” Her voice tightened. Tasha could wait. She couldn’t. Lady Cigyun would be rising soon, assuming her stomach felt alright, and someone had to bring her breakfast.

And, well, she’d never been good at eating under scrutiny, swallowing thickly. “Nothing besides the obvious,” she promised, mouth drier yet. 

“I  _ just _ said you’re a bad liar.” Tasha pinched the bridge of her nose. But it wasn’t a lie. The obvious. The unfortunate, shakily cutting her hair in the middle of the night because gods above he was still touching it.

Scuffing her shoe against the floor, she finished her breakfast. Unmoving, Tasha continued to give her the  _ You cried after lying about tearing your dress  _ stare. She’d crack, wouldn’t she? She always did under that imposing stare. The children started stirring upstairs, so she’d be freed soon, freed to dart out the door and clamor into Lady Cigyun’s room.

“If he touches you again I’ll-” she didn’t figure -

“You can’t hurt our lord.” Certain death.

Tasha tilted her head back. “Never said I would. When are you coming by again?” she asked.

No good answer. Never a liar. “Oh. When it happens, you know? Lady Cigyun needs my help, you know? Whenever she and the lord leave, I suppose,” she answered, and Tasha stepped aside. “You’ll be the first to know if anything happens to me. I really need to get going.” She sat the empty bowl down, lightly punching Tasha’s upper arm. “I’ll even do the dishes when I get back. Deal?”

“Deal.”

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t a lie.

It wasn’t a lie.

She made it into the manor proper as the sun rose above the horizon, fall beginning to set in. The early hour accompanied soldiers bearing different colors than Velthomer’s standing army, just from her experience. Some of them stared at her (they knew they knew they -), but she was a new face, she reasoned. This band of soldiers hadn’t been here when she took her most recent reprieve.

Those weren’t her concerns.

The regular staff of Velthomer paid her no mind (who was she, really?). She scrubbed her hands again before climbing the stairs to the main level. Thirty-two stairs, and from the stairs another set of forty-times-five to Lady Cigyun’s room. She kept to the wall, checking over her shoulder, candles burning in the low morning light. No truths, no lies, no nothing, only her mistress.

Would...would Lady Cigyun still want her? Oh, gods, she hadn’t thought of that part, had she? Lady Cigyun hated the rest of the women the lord of Velthomer slept with, loathed the painted women who lounged in the front hall and drowned in gifts and she never said much about the despondent maids besides apologies and top-down orders to shift schedules.

Time would tell.

Sunilda, knowing which boards creaked, opened the door slowly, shoulder braced against the dark wood. Lady Cigyun slept in her bed, long hair pulled back for sleep, hearth longed out. Every third board, then every two, leaving her meager belongings in her designated corner on her pallet. Not much had changed in the four days she’d been gone. Time told and time stood still.

She started the fire again, struggling as always, taking mind which floorboards creaked to give her mistress her rest. The sheets were mussed oddly, the left side of the bed unmade when she knew Lady Cigyun solely took the right, but she’d make it all the same when she woke up. Whoever took over her duty since she left did it sloppily. She stepped out again, minding the boards, to fill the basin with water. No one, again, noticed her, except the soldiers in new colors, hands tight on their swords.

The tower chimed six times before she left Tasha’s and now it chimed eight. She didn’t feel the ache in her feet yet, and most of her was happy to be back in Lady Cigyun’s service. This was her place.

Lady Cigyun rose with the bells, admittedly slowly. Sunilda opened the curtains, always cautious of her steps (one slip-up and she’d be found again by him and she’d be-), but then she heard Lady Cigyun’s voice and things, almost, felt alright. “Sunilda? You’ve returned,” she said, mid-yawn. “How are those friends of yours?”

“They are fine, my lady, thank you for asking.” Open the curtains, prop open the window for some fresh air. “What would you care to wear today?”

She laughed, light, airy, gentle in the space between them (growing?). “Let me wake up a little, my dear. We’re not all,”  _ yawn,  _ “easy risers. And we’re alone. Feel free to be plain. You know these customs are odd to me anyway,” the not-awake Cigyun promised. Sunilda turned to look at her, her mistress sitting up, weight on her hands.

Her heart twisted.

“May I tell you something?”  _ while you’re still sleepy and serene and unlikely to be hotly angry at me.  _ Her mistress nodded, long lashes setting against her cheeks. “I’m-”  _ I’m another one because your husband is too much and I was too much of a coward to yell and I let it happen and now you’re looking at me so - and I don’t want to lose your graces - “ _ I missed you.”

Lady Cigyun smiled. “I missed you too.” Her head tilted. “But, with my love my dear, what happened to your hair?”

_ Lord Velthomer touched my hair and he’s still touching it.  _ “Couldn’t maintain it. Cut it.” Never a lie. Never a liar.

She shook her head. “We’ll fix you up. It’s a little rough,” she said softly. “I do like it. You’ve the face for it.”

Sunilda touched the ends of her hair, shy of her shoulders. “Thanks.”  _ Cigyun, you really should know- “ _ Who’re the soldiers?”

Her cheeks reddened. “Oh, Prince Kurth is visiting from Belhalla. Some of his knights followed. They’re not bothering you, I hope.”

_ Only one man has bothered me in Velthomer.  _ “No, they’re fine. Just didn’t know them, is all.” Normally the knights stayed outside of the halls. Something changed. “Come, mistress. You should rise, before lord or lordling come to bother you.”

Prince Kurth did not leave for another week. She met the man formally, who remembered her from previous visits, introduced as her favorite of maid servants and a  _ friend, _ hand tucked in the prince’s elbow on a stroll. _ Don’t mind her. She’s quiet,  _ Lady Cigyun promised, smiling at her _. _ The prince, as if she was worthwhile, kissed her hand, something about the favorites of such a fine lady being equally grand and he’d never forget anyone so dear to Cigyun, all the rich babbling ultimately meaning nothing.

Nothing in her felt right, yet she accepted the attention, afraid if she didn’t.

And, for the week Prince Kurth visited, she said nothing. How could she? Lady Cigyun went to bed with a smile, and who was she to dismiss it? The more Lady Cigyun smiled, the better. She deserved it. She’d been in her service for years, and joy with Lord Velthomer came rarely. Lord Velthomer, who for the week (and likely the weeks before), behaved himself during their waking hours.

After the prince’s departure, Lady Cigyun, between her duties and her son, spent time looking out the window, and still, Sunilda couldn’t stomach the courage. She hid on the rare visit from her mistress’ husband (always short and usually a complaint about how she was ruining his son), shaking in her shoulders even after he left. Lady Cigyun eyed her curiously yet never pushed the issue. They’d take their daily walk, occasionally accompanied by the lordling, and Lady Cigyun ruminated on the prince, on how kind he was, and she’d make her glances at the kept women dotted around Velthomer, complain about them if they were alone, and things almost felt normal. If not for Lord Velthomer’s presence everywhere, perhaps she could’ve lived her life without ever thinking of it.

The charade ended. Didn’t they all?

Twenty-three days (and a quarter) after Prince Kurth left, she set to her morning routine. Fresh water to scrub her face, stoke the fire, set out her dress for the day, listen to the other maids chatter to figure out where Lord Velthomer would be that day so they could avoid him. It was good to be by Lady Cigyun’s side despite the troubles.

Lady Cigyun rose with the seventh bell. Her nightgown slipped off her shoulders, wet-eyed and deserving so much more than Velthomer, more than a husband who never looked at her and whatever hell Sunilda was going to drag her in to and wherever she came from was probably better and who ever fell for  _ Victor  _ genuinely? “Always up so early, Sun,” she said, and with each day since Prince Kurth’s leaving, her smile went further from her eyes.

“I’ve never felt easy sleeping in Velthomer,” Sunilda said truthfully. “And I am here to serve you.”

“When will you learn I’m not that fussy?” She stood, tugging her nightgown to cover her slim shoulders. She slept peacefully most nights, but the last nights she kept her up with all the tossing and turning.

_ You are. Velthomer’s kept women tizzy you. Your jaw tightens when another maid comes forward and I don’t want to do that to you.  _ “Whatever you say, Lady Cigyun.” Somehow, her mistress was half a shade paler, and gods, she was really going to do that to her, wasn’t she? Sunilda had to tell her. She couldn’t keep it a secret forever. What would she do? Run? Hope the piece of Victor in her didn’t get the Velthomer blood, stuff the baby in an orphanage and return to Cigyun’s side?

No. She couldn’t. Never disappear, just have the child and say nothing.

Cigyun rinsed her face off while Sunilda opened the curtains. The overcast sky gave no light. Were things ever good in Velthomer?

Ruining something else.

She leaned her face against the window. Just another maid. She was a friend, maybe, when no one was around, and curried the odd favor with gifted hair clips (that she no longer could wear), and Cigyun cutting her hair with her hands soft on her neck, breath on her cheek to ask her a question but she was just a maid. She’d get shifted around like the rest of them and go back to catering to guests. Cigyun wasn’t allowed to have anything, after all, and Sunilda was help.

Don’t say anything. Keep Cigyun.

One.

Say something. The baby deserved it.

Two.

She deserved Cigyun. A comfortable life.

Three.

Cigyun deserved happiness, and her burden wasn’t hers.

Four.

Gods.

Five.

“Sun?” Cigyun touched her shoulder. “Did you hear me?”

“Cigyun?” Her mistress hummed. A prompt to talk. “Promise not to hate me?”

She laughed. “How could I? You’re a sweetheart. What’s troubling you?”

_ So much. I’m sorry _ . “I – Lord Velthomer, he-” sixth breath, fogging the window. Cigyun’s touch twisted in her dress. She could speak plainly here. Did anyone ever hate her? She’d dropped a toad down Tasha’s dress once. Maybe then. They both warranted angered. “Lord Velthomer – he – I – he just – I – and I think I’m– ”  _ keep trying to tell you this but I’m so bad at just about everything. _

She must’ve felt it, felt it before because  _ how many times does it have to happen _ , stepping closer. Cigyun was the one person she was taller than, and barely. “Sunilda, did he-?” she asked. Sunilda flinched as Cigyun touched her cheek, looking away, and it spoke when she couldn’t. “That  _ dastard, _ ” Cigyun mumbled. “When?”

_ I don’t remember I don’t want to remember his eyes look so angry he’s twice my size there’s his fist in my hair is that enough _ ? “It was – I – you’d gotten into a fight with Lord Velthomer again, and you’d left the next day with Lord Arvis ( _ shuffled out of the stables like runaway slaves) _ to meet P – go the market ( _ I’m everywhere, girl: remember that _ ) and I was here, doing what I always do and he approached me and I said you weren’t there and he said-” pause, mind catching up, Lady Cigyun visibly trying to keep up, “-he knew that I knew where you were but I wouldn’t say anything and-” she took a breath, Cigyun brushing her cheek. She looked so  _ sad, _ staring at her. “He said he was looking for  _ me _ , then and he grabbed me and I don’t know, I just froze, I did nothing and just closed my eyes and-”

“Breathe. I hear you.” Lady Cigyun touched her hair. “Is this-”

“Yeah.”

Her shoulders sunk. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Calling you my favorite was a mistake.”

There it was. The truth, the- “I think I’m-” she touched her stomach. “I might be – pregnant, I think.”

Breathe.

Lady Cigyun looked at her, as perfect as she usually was, and on the last breath ( _ fourteen, fifteen) _ , the door opened (why was the door unlocked?). She lost count ( _ gods, it’s Victor, he’s going to _ -). Right. Right. Lord Velthomer bore children already. How many did he have? The halls weren’t full of bastards, only Lady Cigyun’s true son.

“Mother.” Lord Arvis broke the silence between them, and Cigyun took a step away. She tangentially knew him from her years with Cigyun and his occasional company, but he was never there for her, and she wondered if he knew her name. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

“Arvis,” she cooed sweetly. She led Sunilda by the waist to the bed, sitting her down ( _ eyes on the floor eyes on the floor) _ before going to tend to her boy, and, right, she’d spoken, hadn’t she? Cigyun wasn’t the type to raise her voice, and she certainly wouldn’t make a fuss in front of her son. “Can you do something for Mummy?” she asked. “Can you run down to the kitchen for me?”

He stomped his foot he’s coming he- “I  _ just  _ got here, Mother!” The anger audible in his shrill voice set her on edge, gripping the mattress.

“I  _ know _ ,” probably a hug – Cigyun, when she hugged, hugged often.”But you’re a strong boy, aren’t you? Get breakfast and Mummy’s all yours for the day, okay?”

“She’s the help!”  _ The help the helpless who cares about a maid- breathe _ . 

“She’s my friend, Arvis. Please?”  _ That  _ was a kiss, she heard. “Thank you, Arvis.” The door shut again, and the silence between them did not immediately fill. Cigyun sat beside her on the bed, offering a hand but never forcing it. Neither mentioned the fact she cried, which was good, but they were on borrowed time, weren’t they? Lord Arvis would return eventually, assuming he didn’t give up halfway through to beg for his mother’s attention again.

Far stronger than her, Lady Cigyun spoke first, strong and confident. “When?” She tried to read her voice for anger, catching none. Cigyun grit her teeth often in front of the kept women – why would she be treated differently?

“About three months ago.”  _ Two forties plus four.  _

Cigyun, by the twitch of her brow, was counting in her head too. She’d been back for thirty days, after all. “Why didn’t you  _ tell _ me, Sun?” she winced. Her hand sat waiting, and she deserved this while she had it, didn’t she? She carefully laid her hand in hers, and Cigyun squeezed.

_ I’ve tried but your smile  _ \- Sunilda counted more breaths. “I didn’t want you to hate me. I  _ don’t _ want you to hate me.” Sure, it was massively inappropriate, and she internally chided Cigyun for the same thing, but when it was night and it was just them and Cigyun told half-stories about her home, somewhere far away, it almost felt like something more than duty, and she wanted to keep it all for herself. Selfish, like that, but she couldn’t think of just herself now. There was more than her.

“You’re such an idiot sometimes,” and it was the closest she heard Cigyun to speaking ill of her. “Sun, I’d never hate you. I don’t hate any of you.”

“Yes you do.” She heard the complaints, heard the grumbles beneath her breath and waxing about the meaning of marriage. Cigyun rubbed the back of her hand.

“Did you want it?” she asked softly.

What little food she’d eaten climbed up her throat. “ _ What _ ?” Her own voice sounded so shrill to her ears, and this was it, Lady Cigyun’s ( _ Cigyun’s _ ) trashing of her. “No, no, I’ve never wanted-”  _ his breath, his touch, his voice, by Fjalar I- _

“-then I don’t hate you. Maids are hard to hate. You’re hard to hate.” Cigyun pulled her hand, and Sunilda let herself be dragged into a hug, head bowed to her shoulder. She spoke as plainly as she bid Sunilda to do, and the stories of her forest home far away explained the weird way she said her  _ As _ . A comfort. “I’m sorry I didn’t take care of you, Sun, but I’m here now. You’ll be taken care of. Both of you.” 

Sure, she sniffled a little (maybe a lot). “What about Lord Velthomer?” Cigyun wore the barest amounts of perfume, but it stuck on her skin like rain.

“What about him? Maybe doing the right thing will make his heart stop.” 

“Cigyun!” she exclaimed. 

“I say it in  _ jest _ .” Sunilda laughed, knowing it was a tasteless joke ( _ nothing escapes, girl, I  _ will _ know) _ , but Cigyun threw her voice with the zest of a holy-blooded born noble. “No more tears, Sunilda. I’m with you.”

ii.

There were many secrets between mistress and maid, but only one ever made it free.

It took time to reach their lord’s ear.

Lady Cigyun (no longer her mistress – she was relieved from the duty to take care of herself, privately, but she carried on, because making a bed would not kill her or child) sought out the rat, sighing when it was discovered to be her own son. While he returned with breakfast, he confessed to pressing his ear against the door before leaving, and may have said something under his breath about  _ stupid maids  _ when the kitchen girl handed him the tray. (He refused to admit further on how the pregnant bit slipped through, but Cigyun admitted to Lord Arvis’ habit of grumbling grievances when angry.)

For a small bit of time, life seemed okay, if unusual.

The sun rose later than the bells, waking under darkness, and when Lady Cigyun did not have things to do, they spent time together. No one noticed the difference. As they’d done in the past, they shared the bed when the cold set in full – because sleeping alone was, well, lonely and a fate befitting no one – and Cigyun spoke to her about Velthomer until she dozed off; Sunilda found it harder to keep her eyes open, but she’d stay up to eye the door, lock flimsy and previously broken. The nights Lord Arvis crawled into bed she’d head back to her room stored away in the servant’s quarters, for Lord Arvis complained adamantly about her presence.

“You really shouldn’t, my lady.” Lady Cigyun held her hair back, fingers careful in it, lazily running through it. “You’re my-” dinner tasted horrid going down, and it wasn’t any better the other way.

Lady Cigyun clicked her tongue. “Don’t be silly, Sun. We’re both women.”  _ So are Victor’s other conquests, _ she thought. “I’ve never got to do this before. Be here for someone like this.”

“Holding someone’s hair while they puke?” she asked, mouth foul.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve met my son.” Her knees pressed against her back, kneeling behind her. “No, I mean helping you. I’ve no siblings or anything of the sort, and when I left home I was too young to really be anything.” Home. She spoke the word fondly. Her head felt light. “I didn’t do much for the last Velthomer pregnancy, but I wasn’t fond of that woman anyway. I’m fond of you.”

The last pregnancy? There was Lord Arvis, obviously, but he spent days without the company of children, shuffled between tutors and his mother, rarely his father. “Where’s the child?” More dinner on the way up, and she ignored the feeling in her nose.

Lady Cigyun’s hands stopped for a moment. “I suppose you wouldn’t know. This happened before you came to my service.” Lord Arvis was tucked away for the night, begrudgingly allowing her to stay (with no grumbling), and the door jammed with a chair. It was something. “Victor had a son, when I met him, about two, to some noblewoman or the other, but they weren’t married. Winter took him, and his mother went back home. Victor  _ promised  _ me he’d change, and I trusted him, so imagine my surprise when, after having Arvis, one of his mistress’s wound up pregnant, too.” She sighed.

“It wasn’t  _ his  _ fault that he slept with her. I wouldn’t part my legs. He had no  _ choice _ .” Sunilda didn’t argue – her voice carried enough humor to not make her worry. “It didn’t matter, though. I was his wife and Arvis presented Fjalar’s mark.”

“That child?”

“Both passed in childbirth. Not that  _ you’re _ dying. You are staying right here with me, even if I have to shake heaven itself.” She spoke of her distaste for the other women frequently, yet Lady Cigyun was kind beneath the abuse, and did not sound joyful at this woman's death. “ _ How  _ there aren’t more I’ll never understand, unless they’ve all been shipped off somewhere.”

She did good talking to herself, basically, as chunks of dinner settled in her mouth and she did the best to spit them out. Disgusting. “Did you really believe him?” she asked softly, staring at the floor. Anything left to give? She waited.

Having the vaguest ideas about Cigyun’s  _ home,  _ her mysterious background and now no siblings, she wondered just how sheltered Cigyun was. Men didn’t change. They lied, they looked, they touched, they honeyed their words and maybe, just maybe, they decided their wife was enough.

“I did. He was  _ sober _ , Sun, when he told me he was  _ changing,  _ stayed sober through our wedding, even. Apologized each time he slipped and _ promised _ he loved me, but here we are.” Nursing bruises, flinching.

Was anyone listening? It was hard to tell. Maids held loyalties, but never to the lord. The mistresses stayed put, waiting. Lord Arvis, frigid he was, wouldn’t spill to his father. Grumbling around a maid was one thing, but she saw the young lord from a far during the day. He avoided him too.

She stuck a mint leaf in her mouth, taking a small sip of tea. “No offense meant, my lady, but you’re a bit thick.” Cigyun laughed, hands on her shoulders, and she wanted to stay here. “Everyone knows the type of man he is. You didn’t really think you’d fix him, did you?”

“I thought I was special.”

“You are.”

Another laugh, and Sunilda, later, would blame pregnancy for how hot her face felt. They weren’t friends. There were boundaries, she reminded herself, Cigyun’s hands at home on her shoulders, close to her skin. “I think you’re special too, for what it’s worth. I miss home, now that I’ve been away, but I’d be without Arvis, without you, without...him, if I stayed. Odd how fate works.”

Laying her hand on her stomach, feeling less queasy, Sunilda wondered why she deserved this confession. Some things you couldn’t tell a child, she surmised. “All you need is to wait. Men do not live forever.”

“And  _ you _ admonish  _ me, _ ” she chided. Sunilda smiled. Would they have more than Victor between them? She’d told Cigyun all the interesting bits about her already. How much of it did Cigyun remember? “Better?” She nodded, Cigyun’s knuckles touching her jaw as she took her hands away. “You don’t mind sleeping on the pallet, do you? Arvis let you stay, but sleeping in the bed with him is another issue.”

The servants quarters were quite far, and who knew where Victor was? Did Victor know her different? “I do not wish ill will on our lord, Cigyun, but I certainly don’t wish good health. The pallet is fine.”

Things, almost, felt okay, but good things never stayed. 

Cigyun, midway through a grounded enough story that Lord Arvis did not pick apart the nonsense of it every chance he had, did not notice the way the halls quieted on the drop of a pin. Sunilda, midway through a chore she technically did not have to do, felt it, the sudden silence, while Cigyun continued on with her son. He wouldn’t try anything in broad daylight, would he? He rarely made visits to Cigyun anymore, and Lord Arvis, who spent an hour a day with him (“It feels so much longer, Mother”), spoke nothing of any mood changes – subjective, of course; the man was always sour.

Lord Velthomer wouldn’t try anything. Not now.

(He did, she remembered, phantom ache in her hip. It was daylight.)

She stood, carefully. The door, she knew, creaked slightly; it was on her to-do list. Slowly opening the door, groaning into the air, she peeked her head out the door. A board stiff maid cleaned a window, making no eye contact but shook her head. Right. It said enough.

Careful, careful – foot between door and frame as it creaked closed, slowly removing her foot bit by bit (one by one by one). The last time Lord Velthomer visited Cigyun’s room in a fit and found the door locked, he broke it. Lord Arvis, under his own father’s nose, brought in a locksmith to fix it during one of the duke’s parties, slipping the man in amongst the crowds. Was it worth risking the lock, risking outing Lord Arvis’ biases? Children took blows worse than women.

Something was better than nothing, however, and she set the lock – three turns of the wrist, one turn on the heel to lean her back against the door.

It could be a false alarm.

Or not. She wiped at her forehead.

Breathe. He breathed, too. Yellow teeth, mouth rotting from alcohol.

She caught Cigyun’s eye. Something in her body language must’ve said it. Perhaps she noticed the silence. Cigyun, far from a stupid woman, since her first day, opened her like a book. She wondered, always, how she came here, why she did so. Lord Velthomer’s habits were known. 

Before Lord Arvis’ story critique could start, Cigyun touched his cheek. “Why don’t we play hide-and-seek?”

“I am too old for that.”

“Too old to play with your mother? You  _ wound _ me.” Enough faux hurt poured into her voice.

“That’s not what I said!” He was in this wing, wasn’t he? The only reason to go silent. Who else stored away down here? No one too important, if she recalled right. Quest quarters, if Cigyun had family to visit. Lord Arvis’ own bedroom six doors down, the room where the young lord met with his tutors.

Cigyun clicked her tongue. “Then play with me, Arvis. You and Sunilda will hide,  _ together _ , and Mother will count.” 

Something clattered in the hall. Prowling, hunting, never safe, the girl cleaning apologizing, the sound of a kicked bucket. Her previous caution bubbled into fear, hand tight in her hand, dress hiked. “Do I have to play with her?”

“I’ll hide with you next, and the time after you will seek. You know how this game works, Arvis.” He grumbled something. Cigyun, always too kind, sighed. “I will tell you everything after dinner, alright? You deserve that much.” His breath stank, too, ripe on her cheek. If she were a dog she’d howl. 

Hiding. Always better than fighting. Perhaps it wasn’t about her. Perhaps Lord Arvis did something womanly during their hour together, and Cigyun needed to be reprimanded for making him soft. Maybe an apology. Maybe an anniversary. Maybe a promise. It wasn’t her marriage (oh, right, those chances were probably ruined, weren’t they?).

Lord Arvis, to his credit, did as told. Knowing some of this song and dance, Sunilda forced herself off of the door. In an effort to keep up the charade, she offered Lord Arvis her hand, as if she were seven, too, but (naturally), she was shrugged off.

Cigyun, she’d confided, grew up modestly but not destitute. The space of her room in Velthomer amazed her (even if she no longer shared a marriage space with her husband, the room still impressed), and it amazed Sunilda too (who, by Cigyun’s definition, did grow up  _ destitute _ , but she did not hold her mistress’s words against her).

She and Lord Arvis (her and the future duke – this was ridiculous, why couldn’t she-) crammed into the shallow closet to the cadence of Cigyun’s counting (seven, wasn’t this a comfort?, eight, she did it too-), their normal hiding spot. Cigyun’s fine dresses hung, though it’d been months since she’d readied her lady for a party. An embarrassment, unfortunately, no longer fit for public showings, but  _ maybe it’s for the better, Cigyun says, Arvis can never sleep with company around, and I’ve yet to win any of those card games of yours, Sun. _

Eleven – Lord Arvis’ knees to his chest, dressed in black and white – twelve – this was nothing, and Cigyun would find them like always – thirteen – and then lord and lady would hide – fourteen – and then lord would seek (always, always, like father like son) – fifteenth – she pressed herself into the wood – sixteen – hard to breathe with the dresses against her cheek.

“I know what’s going on,” Lord Arvis claimed. “Tell Mother she need not dumb anything down for me.”

Eighteen. “What do you think is going on?” she asked, voice shaking. She barely heard him in the tight space, whisper harsh ( _ I know everything, girl. Remind your mistress _ ).

Think. Breathe. Be here.

He scoffed. Fibbing didn’t suit him. “Oh, you know.” Thankfully, no boots.

“Ready or not, here I come!”

Sunilda rolled her shoulders, lowering her voice. “Hush. You don’t want her to find us, do you?”  _ You don’t want him to find us, do you, if he’s here? _

Little light filtered in through the gap at the bottom of the door. His eyes said, maybe, he wasn’t fibbing. He stewed silently, but his foot shook against hers. She’d been privy to a few games, and trusted that it was excitement, not fear. What did he know?

Normally, surprisingly, they weren’t hiding from his father.

Eyes trained on the sliver of light, she counted what steps she heard; Cigyun played well, given Lord Arvis' habit of picking the same spot. Lord Velthomer would not come quietly.

“Where did you two  _ go? _ ” Cigyun sang, if only to keep the ruse up for Lord Arvis, snickering behind his arm. The shadow paused in front of the door, slim enough to not terrify her. She’d hear Lord Velthomer. No doubt.

Lord Velthomer knew nothing about his son, knew only his heir, she told herself. He wouldn’t know where to look. He wouldn’t know how Lord Arvis took his dinners, how he played, the means to his grumbling – Cigyun murmured his quirks to her at bedtime, eyes soft.

He couldn’t find her. She stretched her ankle. “Oh, to be as good at my son at hiding,” she sighed. Playing with the lord was a delicate balance, somewhere between inflating his pride and not angering him with their incompetence, but crammed in the closet with him, it wasn’t her problem, and Cigyun (hopefully) stretched it out until noise returned to the hall, counts of forty passing by her.

It happened once. Cigyun said she’d protect her now. She knew now.

_ Bang. _

Muffled by the dresses, the rattling of the door still struck her soul deeply. The shake she’d tried to say wasn’t there made her knees knock together, and she held them tightly. Her companion noticed the banging too, tensing himself. “Coming!” Cigyun called, and she kept her voice flat, calm, a lone sapling against the storm. Useless, huh, shaking in a closet, fearful of everything like the useless maid she was.

The door: shut, air: hot, two steps to stand up, sixteen to the door in long strides. Running. Could she? She couldn’t before. Lord Velthomer, tall and imposing, could match the pace. Not again.

“Husband. What do I owe this visit?” The slam of the door. She should’ve disappeared.

Lord Arvis crept forward. “I told you not to lock the damn door,” he started with –  _ his voice, gods, his voice, he’s here, he’ll figure out who fixed the door it’s- _

“Must’ve slipped up,” she apologized smoothly.

“You are  _ always  _ slipping up. It’s sickening.”

“What do I owe this visit?” she asked.

_ Wrong words, never question  _ \- “You will remember your place as my wife. Good women don’t lock doors, goody. This is  _ not _ your home. I will visit whenever I damn well please.” He sounded drunk. Unsurprising. The stale scent of dresses. 

She wished she could be with Cigyun. She appreciated hiding in the closet.

Things ached.

Six footsteps. Too heavy to be Cigyun. “Seen that maid of yours lately?” he asked, smug, ripe, tea scalding in her stomach. “She really your favorite? Out of Velthomer’s women, her?”

Her, her, her. Stomach the shake. Be strong for the children. Be something.

“Come to harass me about my servants?” Even. Steady. Strong. Be her. Crumpling quickly.

Humming ( _ humming) _ , Lord Velthomer – master of harassment – did not immediately answer. Waiting for something. What? Lord Arvis, thankfully, did not try to leave, but he sat closer to the door now, head tilted forward. She’d go if he did, but she did not want to. Gods, did she want to never be seen by Lord Velthomer again.

Her knees shook harder, thumping quietly (quiet, quiet) against the wall. She panicked, holding tighter, and six steps retreated from the door.

“Your worthless maid reflects poorly on you-”

“- she is not  _ worthless - _ ”

Clatter, crash, Lord Arvis jolting, sweat on her forehead, his hand on the door. “You do  _ not  _ interrupt me, woman. Learn soon.” She forced herself to move, waving. Lord Arvis looked to her, attempting to scowl, and she held a (always shaking – would it ever stop?) finger over her mouth.

_ Here.  _

How long? Lord Velthomer likely finished the drink he always carried in absence of speaking. “Maids with bastards will only look poorly on you. Get rid of her. Fjalar above, this duchy needs no more shame.” Plenty raised eyebrows in Velthomer, why would  _ she _ -

“I will do no such thing! She and the child are staying here.”

“So it  _ is  _ true,” Lord Velthomer spat, and Cigyun audibly gasped. Something fell outside, outside of this hovel, stuffed in a closet with a child. “Get rid of her. Bastards give nothing.”

Bastard, bastard, the child a bastard. Her future. Their future. “She is  _ staying _ , Victor. If you can keep those women you can keep your child.” 

“Who said it’s mine?”

Rotten food in her throat. She dropped a spider down Meic’s pants when they were kids. Punishment? “You cannot be serious.”

Tsk, tsk, tsk. Only ever trouble. She should’ve stayed with Tasha. “A poor maid claims to be pregnant with a duke’s child, and you take her at face value? That child in her stomach could be anyone’s and she’s found a way to the easy life. Never trust women. You all lie so easily and without any shame. Get rid of her, Cigyun, or I will.”

“You-” still no anger, yet her voice rose. Cigyun knew here, didn’t she? She never tittered on about men. Her whole life could’ve passed without any attention and she would’ve been happy. Would have been. “The women you keep aren’t all women. She is staying  _ right here  _ with  _ your  _ child, Victor,” years of this, “that  _ you _ forced on her.” Hopefully the baby heard none of this. More. Better.

“There’s teas.”

Her breath stuck in her throat when the first slap resounded. Lord Arvis winced but stood quickly, hand itching for the knob.  _ No, no, stay, Mother can _ – she reached for him, grabbing his sleeve. Finger back over her mouth, she knew Lord Arvis to be a smart boy who wouldn’t risk himself (right, right?), and he took a lone step back from the door. “ _ Tea _ ? Why did you have to be the first man I met? Can you take no responsibility for your actions? A child, you are, breaking plates and sweeping it under the cabinet,” which the young lord  _ never  _ did, not that Lord Velthomer would know. “For once in our damnable marriage, you could do good by me just  _ once _ -” tongue running, but Sunilda jumped at the next slap, loud, hard, unthinkable.

She gripped Lord Arvis by the arm now, pretense gone for the time, tugging him away from the door. He, too, shook like the child he was, fighting her alongside the commotion outside. Had he escaped his father’s hand on his mother? Thinking back, lord and lady rarely spent time together with their son, boy shuffled through the manor as if his mother lived in far off Agustria. 

“My lord,” she said softly, throat tight, almost impossible to use.

“Father is-” something thrown, the shatter of glass, yelling, the dam breaking. His knees knocked, and he stumbled back against her.

Shushing him, unable to tell who shook who, “Hide-and-seek,” she reminded.  _ Fear  _ in his eyes, a first, but he nodded, repeating  _ Hide-and-seek _ . He reached up hesitantly, covering her ears. Odd, but perhaps some nurse or the other did it for him. Forcing herself to smile, the technical adult of the closet, the blood rushing in her ears added another layer to the fighting outside the door.

Cigyun would be fine. She survived childbirth.

Breath, count, Lord Arvis breathing with her. One, two, three. Pause. Four, five, six. Pause. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty. Pause. One, two, three. Pause. This fight was partially her fault. It was seven years of mistreatment.

Another  _ bang,  _ a faint rattle _. _ Someone sniffled (her – covered by a child). Gone. Here. Twelfth breath on the third set. The door opened, and when her head did not meet the wall with a bash, she felt something leave her.

Cigyun. Always. 

Lord Arvis, forgetting about her in the face of his mother, scrambled off of her. It hurt to lift her head. “Mummy’s okay. Why don’t you spend the night? Right here with me.” Soft, tender, giving her son a kiss he did not duck from; she spied a room to clean up past her legs.

“He – he – Father -“ his voice didn’t quite make it, face hidden against her, but Sunilda knew it wasn’t the first time. Her knees ached too. Too old to be cramped in a closet.

“I’m okay.” Red cheek, wild hair, chest heaving. Her stomach twisted. “Get dressed for bed, sweet. Can I tell you another bedtime story tonight?” Lord Arvis nodded. Sunilda struggled to remember a time when she’d seen the lord embrace his mother ( _ she struggled to remember _ ). 

She tried slipping past the hugging duo, duties to do, but Cigyun – so knowing, so much – caught her wrist – she flinched. Perhaps another time they would’ve hugged too, but she knew the lady cherished the time she got with her little lord, and hugging her, now, would only disturb him. “Right here,” she promised softly. “You and I, Sun. You’re here to stay.”

_ Svan,  _ she should’ve said.  _ Call me Svan.  _ Rattled. Flummoxed, distressed, disturbed, perturbed – a series of words Lord Arvis would use tomorrow to show off – she did not. “You and I,” she echoed.

iii.

The first action of the new duke, after a fairly lackluster funeral he barely attended (out of his immense grief, she was sure), was to cast out the rest of Victor’s women. They were being given no leeway, so many of them cried, thrown out by a jealous green brat hoping it would bring his mommy home. They said many things about Cigyun Sunilda never dared to repeat, and she hoped their words never reached Lord Arvis. His family’s tome dwarfed him, but he carried it with pride and anger in his eyes.

Then, of course, there was the slandering against her in those early days. Sunilda took the brunt of the insults with a high chin while she worked, letting the words pass over her, but openly cried in Cigyun’s room. Cigyun could return any day, and Lord Arvis wanted her quarters taken care of for when she did. Fresh sheets, fresh air, no speck of dust. She watered the flowers, pruned their dying leaves, and took a rest when the weight in her hips became too much.

Many of the shamed women claim likewise they were pregnant, and either Arvis was wise beyond his years or an aid whispered it in his ear, but each claim was treated as legitimate. Unchecked Velthomer bastards could not be running around Grannvale, after all. Quickly assessed by the Velthomer medic and midwife, the lies were thrown out. The sole Velthomer bastard grew in her stomach, and they got to stay.

So the maids tittered. She’d been one, and knew how easily they spread lies. Cheap entertainment. The maids also claimed Victor died: of heartache, heart attack, hung himself off the rafters, died with his pants around his ankles, while also twisting his sheets around his neck and tossed himself out his bedroom window (every story came with eyewitness testimony, all promptly shut down within a week by the head of the household).

Sunilda wondered how long she was welcomed. The baby would need her for some time, but at the end of the day, Sunilda came from nothing. An unlucky maid without a mistress any longer, without guardian.

The women complained, dragged their heels and threw fits, but Lord Arvis held his chin up, throwing as much authority in his young voice as possible. They were all gone in those three days, thrown out before dinner. The halls of Velthomer managed to be larger without them, but equally smaller. A lord who barely cleared the desk he ruled from, a maid laden with a bastard, and the rest of the servants remained. Sunilda’s tasks, in the light of her new world, were simple – keep Cigyun’s quarters fresh – while the rest of the maids were sent to sanitize the now vacant rooms.

Velthomer changed subtly. She noticed maids wearing make-up again, ponytails looser, waists of dresses more fitted, the barest flashes of ankle; was five days all it took to lift the veil? Perhaps it was too early to be so relaxed, but there  _ were _ a few years to see if Lord Arvis followed in his father’s footsteps. Apples never fell far from the tree, or so the saying went.

Sunilda supposed she would be around to find out.

Rising before the sun as she did most days, she blinked her heavy eyes before swinging herself out of bed. Her bare feet touched the frozen stone floor, hearth extinguishing in the night, and she made quick to dress. There wasn’t much to bring from her home, a single bag of belongings, but she’d head to the market on her free day. Years of labor resulted in comfortable pocket change. For now, Lord Arvis allowed her to live in the manor for free while still paying her (despite her being released by Cigyun), and she could save her money.

Sunilda left her room. The live-in domestics were waking, too, and the kitchen had been up for hours. She smelled eggs through the air, and the scent made her queasy now. A quick breakfast, she told herself, and then Cigyun’s rooms; she wanted nothing more than to do her job and remain in her new lord’s good graces.

Given a wide berth in the hallway, she kept her chin as high as she had been. No one needed to know how she felt, how she shook in private. Her thoughts were  _ hers _ . Victor’s women may have openly sneered at her, but the staff kept their gazes better concealed. She ate meals alone anymore; the friends she’d made during her employment stopped speaking casually to her when the rumors began, and when the rumors became  _ truth _ it all stopped.

Cigyun was the one person that did not change.

There was Magda, too, the unofficial boss of the maids. Sunilda tangentially knew of her, an old, sturdy woman who’d served in Velthomer since Victor was a boy and possessed more staying-power than any sane woman should have. “You’re finally up, girl,” she said, loud in-spite of the early morning; the cloth she tied around her hair remained in place, knotted behind her ears. Madga lived out-of-house, having walked her home a few times, though she did not know where, and Sunilda dreaded to think how early she woke each day to make it here.

“I’m finally up,” she echoed, picking up a preset serving of eggs made by the kitchen staff. Chickens weren’t doing well this season. Magda handed her a warm cup, fingers rough and callous, a life of hard work; Sunilda lifted it to her mouth, sniffing it first. “Is it still raining?”

“Aye.” Closer to the earth, Magda squeezed past her in the cramped space of the eatery. She did her best to stay out of her way, balancing a cup and an egg in her hands. “My sister says those herbs help with the sickness,” she called over her shoulder. A laugh came pouring out of her. “Though it’s been a few years since we’ve been having babies.”

The sickness. “You have children?” she asked. She took a small drink. It tickled her tongue, warm in her throat.

“None by blood, but they’re my kids all the same.”

Ah. Sunilda didn’t comment. “Thank you for the tea,” she said instead. “I appreciate it.”

It did settle her stomach, but she did not drink it all at once, gripping the mug. Eggs were out, she decided, after gagging on it and emptying her stomach. Four sets of forty steps took her back to Cigyun’s rooms. In spite of her upbringing, living in Velthomer (married to a nightmare), Cigyun accepted the need of a lock – she was vague on where she hailed from, but she admitted her town had no locks. Sunilda, off hand, knew four facts about her absent mistress.

The door needed oiled, and it was resistant to her opening it. She struggled to light the hearth, hands shaking, more pathetic than she’d ever been before. Off-kilter in the deepest ravines of her soul, the priests she’d spoken to were, well, useless.  _ Healing begins with forgiveness _ , the blue-haired priestess assured her.  _ Letting anger linger festers like a splinter, and the wound cannot begin to heal if you leave the splinter in. _

Anger. She wished it was anger. Anything, to fill the hollow.

Stupid fire. Heat singed the hairs on her arms.

She sat back on her heels, eyes on the fire. What needed done today? The sheets were fresh, the curtains beaten, but – dust. Dusting took a while. Lady Cigyun sneezed quite a bit, nose scrunched up.

She hated dusting.

Trying to not think as she worked (Cigyun’s warm smile hidden by a mug, laughing at a joke Sunilda told), Sunilda dusted the desk the new duke sat at and Lady Cigyun often ignored (thirty-two steps left of the door, eighteen away from the garden, hair pulled to the point of breakage-). The desk, the frame of her bed (slippers abandoned on the floor, dress pooling on the floor), the windows (long hair down her pale back), dust gathering beneath her short nails (scratch, scratch, scratch until her skin went red).

Work, work, work. She ignored the feelings she didn’t have.

The hall door cracked open. She’d been trapped in Cigyun’s room before. Twelves step back to the door from her current position, three to the window if she was confident enough, but she wasn’t confident enough to run through the gardens because it would not happen again, but who would? Who, she thought, slowly turning, knuckles white on the grip of her rag. The cook stayed in his domain and the butler had no -

The shoulders were too slim to be a man’s.

“Why are you here?” Lord Arvis wiped crumbs off his cheek, depositing them on the floor. Cigyun never minded a crumb. Cigyun never minded her son.

She sat the rag down. “It’s my duty to clean her room. You gave me the task. Remember?”

He ripped the fat bread roll between his hands. Eating like so didn’t suit him, but she wasn’t going to berate him. It wasn’t her place. “Mother relieved you.” At least he didn’t eat with his mouth stuffed. Manners probably got jammed into him at a young age (a younger age).

“I do it as gratitude towards her,” _not disobedience_ , she quickly replied. Lord Arvis beckoned for her to follow with his free hand, and she didn’t have the right (nor the heart) to tell him no, wiping her hands off on her dress. He made no effort to wait for her, but she caught up. “Do you need something, my lord?”

He looked over his shoulder. For the most part, they were alone. “Once the rooms are cleaned of those women you will have first pick of them. You cannot board with the servants with a baby.” A room of her own – a room for the baby, she corrected. There was nothing special about her with her mistress gone. “I do not think the stench of their perfumes will ever leave the curtains. Why they ever felt the need to douse themselves in it I do not understand.” Lady Cigyun wore it too, but she kept quiet on that.

The air  _ had _ been easier to breathe since the swaths of kept women left. “Thank you, my lord.” He huffed. Passing through the archway leading out to the gardens, the sunlight made her brave. “You’re having a late breakfast, if I may comment.”

Lord Arvis did not reprimand her. “I was not hungry this morning. The duchy of Edda sent jams from their priests as...sincerity for Father’s passing.” He pulled another piece of roll apart, offering it to her. Stomach empty from her failed attempts at eating eggs, she accepted it. The jam stuck the bread between her teeth and gums. “I wonder what they want.”

“Can they simply not be kind? Edda’s full of priests, is it not?” Not all priests were created equal, admittedly. She thought of the useless priests she’d spoken to in the past months.

He laughed. “Lords never do anything out of kindness. Edda will want a favor.” Lord Arvis touched a flower in-passing, the same soft lilac as Lady Cigyun’s hair. They’d been gifts, she was certain, from some house or the other. She knew Victor to have family, unlike Cigyun “Mother can deal with the request when it comes.”

She blinked. “Your mother is not-”

“-she will be,” he harshly interrupted. “Once word reaches her that Father and those  _ women _ are gone she will be home. There is no one left in Velthomer to hurt her.” They were the affirmations of a child, but she could not dispute them, nor did she want to. What else did she have besides the hope Cigyun would return? Cigyun, who gave her and her child a place to stay and bore the brunt of Victor’s wrath.

Some part of her, though, knew the unthinkable.

Lord Arvis, for all his might, was a child who reached her shoulders.

Sunilda was not much better off.

“It will be a good day,” she agreed. Lord Arvis nodded, finishing his late breakfast. “You have jam on your cheek, my lord.” He wiped it with his sleeve, and an attendant likely sighed somewhere.

“Did you like the jam?” Like most children with feet beyond his years, a time she recently remembered, he scuffed his boots on the stone path. 

“I did.”

He rolled his tight shoulders. “Then you may have it. Jams have never been my taste.”

Smiling, “Thank you, my lord.” The garden needed tending to, neglected by the staff, weeds overcoming the old beauty of the flowers. She could do it, she supposed. Cigyun liked the petals. A well-tended garden might soothe the ache in her soul.

Lord Arvis looked up at her (what a unique feeling) as they walked; she’d never match the oddities of nobility, the red eyes with the red hair. Would the baby inherit her dull browns or the unfortunate coloring of the father (the brother, she told herself)? The leaves of the ferns dipped onto the path, brushing against her legs. She needed a new dress by years-end. “Will you speak plainly with me?” he asked. It...wasn’t what she expected, but she nodded, as if she had a lot to say.

“Of course.” He stopped, and so did she. “Does something trouble you?”

Nodding with a rough jerk of the chin, he pushed out words that sounded half rehearsed, half improvised. “Something happened to you, Sunilda, and no one will tell me what. Mother said she would protect you and I will do so until she can return to do it herself but-” he took a deep breath. “I am duke, but there are things no one will tell me and why you are different.  _ Bad things  _ happened to women. Mother hated,” maybe not that far, “the other women. They made her cry. Father made her cry. But you get to stay.”

Sunilda figured she’d be scolded later (for the record, she was), but the lord requested  _ plainness, _ so she’d deliver. Kneeling, she folded her hands in her lap. The boy wanted something and she’d do her best to give it. “Your father had those women, yes, and he did things with them that he also did with your mother.” Lord Arvis nodded. He likely had a floundering idea on sex, given the man that used to roam these halls, and she had the vaguest concept of it at his age. “But he...looked at us maids like-” she picked at her fingernails.

_ He forced us maids into his bed. _

“Like what?” Lord Arvis asked, voice devoid of his usual commanding streak.

She twisted her hands. She still felt Victor’s touches if she did one too many things wrong. “Your father kept a lot of women, but the women he kept wanted to be kept, and those were the ones your mother hated.” Right? Cigyun didn’t hate her, did she? Seven steps of waltzes around her quarters, a smile on her face: Cigyun didn’t hate her. “But, well, for every woman he kept he always wanted...more, he-”

Gods, she was a degree of useless, wasn’t she?

Lord Arvis looked down at her (a feeling she’d know well in the future). “What are you trying to say?” Thankfully, when Arvis was not ruling the dukedom, he seemed to have a shred more patience.

Sunilda rolled her eyes internally. “What I – your father kept a lot of women, but he also did the same things with the maids as he did them but -” she knew she was talking in circles. She took one, two, three breaths to steady herself. “The women wanted it. The maids did not.”

“Maids are women,” he stated matter-of-factually. He, of course, was right.

“What I’m trying to say-” she toyed with her tongue. “Your father forced himself on a lot of women, Arvis. Women who did not want it. Your mother didn’t hate those.”

“Doesn’t hate.”

“Your mother doesn't hate the maids.” Did these even count as half-answers? Why couldn’t she say it out loud? Lord Arvis wouldn’t understand it anyway.

Lord Arvis frowned. She’d done it. She’d lost her roof and her baby would stay in Velthomer while she was exiled- “You aren’t telling me everything. Why?”

_ Because I can still feel your father touching me. I cry when I brush my hair or if I do the wrong routine when I bathe and when I remember a piece of him grows inside of me.  _ Sunilda struggled to still her hands in her lap. “I will tell you when you are just a little older, okay?” she promised, voice matching her hands. “Just a little older, alright?”  _ when I have my own worlds, when I control myself again and your father has left me and you know women outside of your mother _ . “I’ll tell you all I know when I can.”

Brow furrowed, Lord Arvis touched her shoulder. He wasn’t his father, she reminded herself, at least for now. “Why do you sound like you’re crying? Father is gone. He cannot hurt you or Mother again. Why weep?”

_ Pain can be more than physical,  _ she thought. “I’m trying, my lord.” She reached up to squeeze his hand, and he didn’t hit her, so they were getting somewhere. He did seem jolted by the touch, stealing his hand back just as soon as he put it there. “Thank you for the breakfast.”

Lord Arvis nodded. “You are welcome. Thank you for your company.” Bits of him where his father. Bits of him where his mother. She stored away the desperate longing that he took more after the latter, or perhaps whatever butler would be shouldered with him in the coming years. He offered his hand for her to stand, and then shoved it under his cloak. They walked to the opposite end of the gardens; a fly buzzed at her head. “Oh, and Sunilda?”

“Yes?” Her duties in Cigyun’s quarters waited from the way they came. He stood under the door frame.

“You may drop the formalities in private.”

iv.

A baby was born quietly in Velthomer in the height of summer. Smacked on the bum, quick to latch, something broke in her, and the birth was a convenient excuse to cry.

Tears were wasted time. The midwife cleaned them up, gave her a primer on swaddling, assured her that the lord would be informed, and they both got stored away in Sunilda’s room, complete with the bassinet lordlings of Velthomer slept in (allegedly).

Sunilda longed to name him. Tradition dictated her to wait; babies were not a given, and if she did not name him, he could not be taken from her heart, or so the midwife told her. Wait a few weeks, she said, to see if he lasted.

Still, she gave him a name in her mind, but kept it there and there alone, daring not to think about it more than idly at night.

Baby Velthomer (for the time being) was small – he fit in the crook of her arm, from elbow to the tips of her fingers. Swaddled in a blanket gifted to her by Magda, he seemed smaller, somehow, like she’d bought a loaf of bread and was bringing it home. His cries were soft, desperate little whines that yearned for her attention, and she gave it. She stroked his cheek while he fed, offered her finger when his tiny fist waved in the air, and patted his bum when he fussed.

When he slept (which was often), she stared at him, his skinny cheek on her shoulder, breaths warm and shallow on her skin (it made her shudder). He slept comfortably in his cradle beside her bed. Sunilda rocked it with her foot to keep him soothed, and if she was not too tired, she watched: his chest thankfully rose in small mountains, his nose crinkled, and he did his best to wiggle out of the blanket (swaddling was an odd skill, Sunilda told herself; she’d pick up on it with practice).

For a few days, his skin was waxy to the touch, and the midwife assured her this was the norm. Too little to be properly bathed, Sunilda cleansed him of birth with a wet rag; his red eyes, vibrant like coals, tried to focus on her face, but the world was  _ new _ to him. She did not mind his wonder. She welcomed it, in fact.

They were not his father’s eyes. He was not his father.

Victor was dead, she reminded herself.

Dead, dead, dead. The pain of a living-Victor came solely from dreams.

Sunilda did not hear from Lord Arvis in the first few weeks. He surely knew about the baby’s birth – how could he not? – but he was duke, and there were things to attend to. She  _ saw _ him when she went to return her dishes to the kitchen, head held high in the front hall, barely clearing anyone’s hip, but they did not look at one another. She did her best to not draw attention to herself or to the baby bundled against her chest. There’d been enough of that.

She gave herself a week off, a week to stare at the baby,  _ her _ baby and hers alone. It did not feel real, twenty-two and the mother of a noble child, but she’d pinched herself enough times to know it was so. Sunilda, never one for dreams, waited to wake up in her parents’ home, childless, jobless. She’d taken the job at the bakery. The drama of Velthomer beyond her.

Now, she was the drama.

When she felt better in the body, she tied Baby Velthomer to her chest in a sling, returning to Cigyun’s room. Dust collected on the furniture in the two weeks she was gone; she opened the windows to air it out. She held off on anything too heavy duty for the time being. Parts of her felt sore in ways she thought impossible, and she did not want to risk her baby.

She stripped the sheets to be washed, folding them to be taken to the wash; the flowers wilted in her absence, browning and limp. Digging her fingers in the dirt, she scooped them free. Could she bring them back? Re-home them? Unlikely. No magic in her veins. Would Cigyun know any different? Would she care?

(Would she be coming home?)

The baby fussed at some points, feet digging into her tender stomach, and she leaned him against her shoulder to look out. He gnawed on his thumb. She told him stories about Cigyun, murmured into the top of his head, soft steps around the edges of the carpet laid atop the hard floor. Light red hair dusted his skull. A Velthomer.

A Velthomer.

Hers?

He dozed off against her, little nose dipped against her collarbone; she did not have the heart to bundle him back up, and she longed to call him by his name, so dangerously close to saying it out loud. 

Cigyun’s room would be there tomorrow. She covered him up, impossibly small against her, shutting the windows with her free hand. Would Cigyun mind if the baby napped in her bed? She did not think so, but she couldn’t cross that boundary. Cigyun was kind, yes, but her mistress first and foremost. She’d keep the space as spotless as she could, but for now the baby was small enough to not cause mess.

Sunilda strove to avoid the rest of the manor. Most in the manor ignored her to begin with, she ignored them likewise, and she did not mind that fact. Just her and her baby, lurkers in the halls of Velthomer. She poked her head out of Cigyun’s quarters before leaving, and seeing that the hall was clear, she left, keeping to the wall; she could not count high enough the steps back to her room.

But, well, there was Magda, who she hadn’t seen since giving birth. Magda held her hand and dabbed sweat off her forehead, but she had her jobs in the manor to attend to. Sunilda did not take it personally.

“What are you doing, girl? You should be resting,” she stated firmly; she’d heard that tone before. Magda wore a new scarf atop her head, deep green settled against her brown hair. Creature comforts.

She needed new socks.

“A walk around the manor won’t kill me.” The baby slept soundly. His foot twitched against her hand. She rubbed his back, and Magda watched her. The exception to all her rules. “I know my limits. There is work for me to do.” Work to do to keep a roof over her and the baby’s head. Work to do to fill the ache in her stomach. Work to do to keep Velthomer fresh for Cigyun. Work to do, work to do.

Cigyun deserved her best.

Magda stared at her. “Push yourself too hard and that boy of yours will be alone.”

“House labor won’t kill,” she repeated. The baby’s breath, wet against her skin, kept her grounded. He needed her, for however long he did: she refused to leave before then. The twitch of his fingers against her chest. He needed her in a way she’d never been needed before, at no fault of his own.

Nothing, she reminded herself, was his fault. Nothing.

Sunilda stood barely taller than Magda, but Magda knew how to make herself appear larger. How else could a woman stomach working in the Velthomer manor for so long? Sunilda originally intended to leave  _ some time _ , but the specter that haunted maids died with a drink (never without one), hopefully left in the ground.

Lord Arvis  _ had _ to be different.

“You take care of yourself,” Magda  _ ordered _ , voice tight on the request. Another boy didn’t need to lose his mother. Her face blossomed into a smile. “Now, can I see the boy?”

“Later. He’s sleeping. You’re working.” Sunilda felt what she was trying to do. She hesitated to let anyone in. Magda gave her tea. She held her hand during labor through the kindness of her heart. She offered her home if things went (further) south.

Magda sighed, shoulders hefting with the motion, eyes looking at her shoulder. “He’ll sleep a lot,” she said, but didn’t push the matter, wiping her hands off on the front of her dress. “If ya need anything, you have me while I’m here. I’ve been known to put a babe to bed.”

“I understand.” Magda’s eyes left her shoulder, settling back on her face. They stared at one another, and Sunilda’s attempts to be passive in the face failed as the baby whimpered in his sleep. She checked on him, finding his fist twisted between their bodies, and she did whatever she could to save him the heartache, carefully dislodging it. Him and his fist. “You should get back to work.”

“I’m in the midst of it.” She picked up her basket, settling it on her hip. Was there a harm in letting her in? There was no shame in help. “Oh. Lord Arvis wishes to see you in the study after dinner,” she added on. It was time, she supposed. They’d have to meet eventually.

Sunilda wouldn’t avoid the summons. Cigyun’s unspoken expectations weighed on her. “Noted. Is that all?” Magda nodded, and they exchanged whatever pleasantries they had to. Back to her room in rounds of forty, the halls quiet during the day. She woke the baby when he needed to eat; he stared at her with his wide eyes, laying on her bed, feet pedaling in the air.  _ Joy _ .

His name sat on her tongue, on Cigyun’s tongue, whispered in the privacy of her quarters. She could wait.

Waiting. Cigyun. The thoughts went hand-in-hand.

She took her own quiet dinner; the baby stared at the spoon, trying to curl his fingers in the air. She didn’t dread seeing Lord Arvis, but he unnerved her ever since they hid from Victor. A child full of feelings he’d no right owning. Still, she knew him to be Cigyun’s child, her only, and he inherited her chin.

The little things.

It was busier post-dinner, and she lost count of the steps while avoiding other people. The head butler, stationed outside the hall leading to the study, nodded her along; she’d rarely been down here, and never had the displeasure of cleaning the study – everyone knew the horror that lurked within.

The butler’s eyes bore into her back. Watched. Would she always be watched? How much could she defend herself with the baby hidden against her breast? Could she defend herself? Could -

She laid her hand on his back. His breath stuttered.

No longer alone, her thoughts had to be more, she reminded herself.

No longer alone.

Beating the door, she called out. “Lord Arvis? You wished to see me? Uh, me being Sunilda, of course. And the, uh, baby.” She wet her lips.

Silence. Wrong words? She waited for the invitation to enter. Cigyun let her go freely, but Lord Arvis, despite inheriting her chin, was not her.  _ Duke  _ Arvis, seven with squared shoulders. Waiting, waiting. Perhaps he was out? 

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen - “I’m entering, my lord.” She twisted the knob. Poking just her head in, she didn’t spot him, but she spotted the tome he lugged around sitting on the desk. The cover was distinct. “Lord Arvis?” Oh, gods above, it would be her luck to find him gone. It wasn’t suspicious at all, the same maid finding Cigyun gone and the new duke absent. How far could he get on his little legs? How could he have gotten past the -

Worrying for nothing, her eyes found him slumped in his chair. Far too big for him, curled in the space, hair in his parted mouth, she reminded herself he was her duke, her lord, the boy who permitted her to stay in the comfort of the manor. She owed him, owed the memory of his mother, and she would not spit on that.

He’d eaten, it seemed, an empty plate sitting beside his family tome. Healthy children survived. Fed children survived. Cigyun would want her to.

Clearing her throat, she touched his shoulder gently. “Lord Arvis?”

Grumbling, he stirred, pushing her hand off of him. He rubbed at his eyes, mumbled a few more things beneath his breath, and sat up. Sitting on the edge of the chair, another could’ve fit behind him, and he had a few more years before his feet reached the floor. Young. “Sunilda,” he said with a yawn. Cheek left with an imprint from the chair, she reminded herself that he was the most powerful child in Velthomer. “You came.”

“You requested me, yes.” He looked away for a moment, and then the Velthomer red (that now sat in her baby’s face) found her eyes. She did not look away. “I presume this is about him?”

“Am I not permitted to see you?” He rolled his shoulders. “But yes. The midwife said enough time passed.” A month. So much changed. So much remained the same.

She blinked. “You are permitted,” she said.

Lord Arvis grinned. “I know.” Sleep bled through his words. Another rub at his face, sleeve rolling back on his arm. “The midwife said it is safe to name him now. Have you thought of a name?”

Cigyun dabbing her forehead with a wet cloth, Victor stomping down the hallway, nights of crying into her blanket, skin rubbed raw. “I’m permitted to name him?”

Brow furrowed, “Well, yes? I am permitted to veto it, the attendants tell me.”  _ Veto  _ a baby’s name. Her fear, really: she’d name the baby wrong, shame the noble blood he spawned from, disgrace him more than he already was, and lose their tentative housing.

“...Azel,” she said; the name thumped in her chest. Lord Arvis hummed, but reached for quill and paper, undoubtedly some soul about to receive a midnight letter; did clerics record babies of the rich? Did the nobles have their own books? Things worked differently here. Wealth made the world spin faster. “Lady Cigyun nominated it.”

Form left his shoulders. She’d been lucky in avoiding his wrath concerning his mother. The maids tittered about which one of them gotten yelled at for mentioning that maybe, just maybe, Cigyun was  _ gone _ . Getting yelled at was better than anything Victor ever did. “Did Mother also  _ nominate  _ a spelling?”

“I do not think so.” Not that she could write to know. He scribbled with better writing than she’d ever have. He showed her the paper, and she smiled and nodded. “The name is fine?” As if he knew they were talking about him, the baby –  _ Azel  _ stirred, stretching out. He cooed, and the duke’s eyes looked to her for a moment.

Lord Arvis nodded. “If Mother chose it, it is fine,” Mother was always fine. He folded the paper, sealed it, and set it in a pile, likely to be distributed come morning. Another rub at his eye, another coo from her now-named son; when one boy rose, another fell. Perhaps she should’ve let him sleep.

“Would you like to see him, my lord?” He hesitated for a moment, tugging at his thumb, before nodding his head. “May I sit?” she requested, gesturing to the couch before the hearth. Another nod. Lord Arvis hopped down from his chair, grabbing the tome he favored so much. She knew the Velthomers descended from the Crusader Fjalar, and with the blood came the tome, but, well, what did it matter to her?

The fire lit the bright red of his hair against his skin. He sat near her. Now that she stopped moving, the baby wiggled more; Sunilda undid the wrap, and Azel’s wide eyes blinked at her. Every time she looked at him it never felt real. He wasn’t his father. Neither of them were. “Hi, baby,” she said softly, “have a good nap?” He took his thumb out of his mouth, trying to shove his fist back into his swaddle. Lord Arvis craned his head, as if she was particularly tall. “Care to meet your lord brother?” Half-brother? Did it matter? It did, didn’t it?

If it did, the brother in question did not elaborate. Perhaps he didn’t know, but she knew some attendant was likely to tell him. Bastards couldn’t curry favor. “He’s tiny,” he said. Another yawn. She hesitated to ask if he was okay.

“He is,” she agreed. “Would you like to hold him?” Azel leaned into her finger that she brushed over his cheek. What had the midwife called it? Rooting?

His slim shoulders tightened, tugging at his sleeves, but he nodded. Sunilda leaned closer to him, and she passed him over; Lord Arvis looked so awkward holding him, pausing on what to do with his hands, but he held him all the same. He did not say much for a few minutes (“ _ Hello _ ”) but his eyes did not leave Azel’s. Unsure on how to read him, she kept her attention on them. 

Lord Arvis touched him. It was real. Something pricked at her eyes. “He has Father’s hair,” the duke said. Doubting her ability to respond, she curled her fingers into her palm, nails cutting crescents. “The butler tells me,” at bedtime, she was certain, “the heirs of Velthomer have carried this red since the Crusader Fjalar.”

“I’ve heard the stories too, my lord.”

He yawned again. Duke, perhaps, but children whispered as well as maids, and she overheard the words he whispered to the baby. “Azel, was it? Mother has a knack for names.” He frowned, looking at her, and she smiled lopsidedly. The displeasure of her lord could easily leave her in the stables. “Well, I suppose we’ve different mothers. It matters not. You are here to stay.”

_Stay._ _Here to stay._ Sunilda swallowed thickly.

“Sunilda,” he said crisply. “You know where to get help, yes, should you need it? The midwife is in the guest chambers for a few weeks longer, and if you need her, you may send for her. The guards are to listen to you.” He touched the baby’s –  _ Azel’s  _ cheek, his small hand massive on his face. Azel cooed, baring his gums. “If anyone bothers you, you are to tell me.”

She nodded. “Understood, my lord.”

Azel grumbled, wiggling in his blankets. He kicked a foot free, never one to be confined long, and from there the swaddle surely fell apart. “And still tell me if anyone’s talking about Mother.” Azel pounded his fist against Arvis’ arm, babbling more nonsense. “Do maids ever stop chattering?”

“When we sleep.” Azel, likewise, chattered constantly. He babbled and cooed (or tried, mouth parted) and beat his small hand against his brother’s arm again and again, though there wasn’t much of a swing to it. 

“Mother said you were no longer maid.” Lord Arvis  _ smiled _ at Azel (Lord Azel? Nobility?). It untangled the knot brewing in her.

He handed Azel back to her. They, however, did not touch. “Thank you for coming to see me. There are...things in the works to ensure his place here,” he stated. He stood up, smoothing his blouse. “Good day, Sunilda.”

Azel seemed to be happy to be back in her arms, rubbing his head against her shoulder. Hungry? Likely. “Where are you off to, my lord?”

Staring her down –  _ gods, is that Victor’s face it’s Victor’s face Arvis is not Victor _ – Arvis smoothly responded, “Bath and bed.”

The baby never took long to feed. “Would you like help, my lord?” she asked. “I do not mind helping if you need it.” Cigyun, she knew, bathed him. Obviously he’d bathed since Cigyun left, too pristine to say otherwise. Arvis held her eyes, unshakable, somewhat terrifying, but her words must’ve reached him, his normally strong chin shaking.

“ _ No, no, no, _ ” he said quickly, voice breaking in a few spots, “no, no. I can do it myself.” He gripped his own arms, stepping away from her. His foot bumped against a leg of the low table behind him. He stumbled, almost falling.

Sunilda stood, holding Azel gently against her body. She reached to steady him, but he dodged from her touch. “Arvis, whatever it is I don’t care.”

A boy who never shied away from eye contact couldn’t look higher than her nose – a boy who never shied away from  _ anything _ . What could have happened? “I can bathe myself, Sunilda. Good night,” he said again, and gods his voice was almost – he pushed past her, ducking out of his own study like a thieving serving boy. 

Cigyun would understand.

She knew her son.

“Of course, my lord.”

v.

Azel fussed himself to sleep between feedings and staring wide-eyed at the light crackling across the sky. Her dinner sat cold on the table, his cheek pillowed on her breast, and her eyes threatened to close against her will. Babies cried, she reminded herself, at no fault of their own. Babies cried. They were famous for it. Frustrating, unbelievably so, but they melted away at the sight of Azel’s chubby face.

Rising to her heavy feet, she did her best to not disturb him. His breath stuttered, the small sigh that told her he was  _ asleep _ , and tiny finger by tiny finger she released his grip on her dress, lowering him into his bassinet. She brushed her index finger over his cheek, his mouth slightly open in his sleep.

She fixed her dress. The door was locked, but the halls of Velthomer spooked her, knife sitting beside her meal, ready, waiting. She stepped quietly, avoiding the floor panels she knew creaked. A few hours of peace, gods willing. Her luck was notoriously low.

Sunilda cracked her back, her wrist, her ankle. Stoke the fire, feed it, give it life for a few hours. The lazy summer heat slowly drifted away, and nights were long. Each part of her felt stiff, almost painfully so, and she quietly picked up the plate, careful to sit back in the plush chair. Little appetite on her part, but now she had Azel to look after, pale and speckled red.

Victor was dead, she reminded herself, portraits removed from the hall. Victor was dead.

Thunder boomed overhead once more, and lightning lit up the small room. Azel didn’t stir – she listened with bated breath – and so she slowly began to eat, trying to savor the bites. Who knew she’d be eating three meals a day? Dinner had been a treat so long ago.

Somewhere between bites of food, she dozed off, head on the table. Azel only ever slept for a few hours at a time, achingly hungry (Magda assured her that was  _ good _ ; babies who fed were babies who lasted winter), and she’d take her hours where she could. She’d thought she’d have a few more years before motherhood. She’d thought she’d have more help. A husband. A home of her own. Her own parents to dote on their grandson, or at least  _ accept _ him, believe her.

She did not sleep long enough to dream before a weak  _ thump _ resonated on the door, knob rattling. Sunilda jumped up, chest tightening. Azel did not stir, thank the gods, and she held her breath as she stood. No one visited her in the night. Magda went home before dinner to visit her wife, and no one else in Velthomer paid her any mind. The midwife did not live in-house. One hand to the knife, eight steps to the door, eight back to grab Azel and three out the window-

Another pound. “Sunilda!”

Arvis.

Breath still caught in her throat, she got up to let him in. She feared another knock would startle Azel awake. No more wails. “Lord Arvis,” she said, unable to put cheer in her voice. “What do you need?” 

Was it wrong to look down on your lord? She supposed she had no choice. “Why was your door locked, Sunilda?” he asked shrewdly. His small body barely filled the doorway, clutching a tome to his chest, cloak wrapped tight around him.

“Peace of mind,” she replied. Arvis scoffed, pushing past her. She stomached her sigh, softly shutting the door. “Be mindful, my lord. Azel sleeps.” Looking longingly at her dinner, she wrung her hands in front of her. What could he need at this hour? His hair looked wet – not that she was permitted to bathe him anyway – and he took an early dinner.

“I told you you did not have to call me lord in private.” The tome made a soft  _ thud _ when he sat it beside her dinner. He barely managed it, but he was a tall boy. Still, he seemed mindful of her request, taking quiet steps to peer into the bassinet. “I heard him cry.”

“So did I.” The shadows of the room lit beneath another flash of lightning. His shoulders hiked. “Do you need something?”

“When it stormed I slept with Mother. The thunder scared her,” he said. Sunilda wondered which one the storm actually scared. “I am here to protect you from it,” Arvis finished, looking back at Azel. Used to her lord being a man crammed in a child’s body, she stared at him, brow furrowed, trying to discern if he was joking. 

The joke never came.

Seven, in some ways.

“...I see. Thank you.” She kept an eye on him, but sat back down. She trusted him to not needlessly harass Azel, but the longer he slept the better, and now she’d be up until Arvis fell asleep too (or left). Part of her minded. Most of her didn’t. 

Sunilda reached for her dinner. “Why was he crying?” Arvis asked, whispering in the way children did (poorly).

“He gets frustrated.”

“He’s a baby.”

“Who cannot do all the things he wants.”

Arvis frowned, but he was not the duke right now, so she tried to not let it worry her. “Maybe he’s scared of the storm.”

Shaking her head, she ripped a piece of bread. “He loved it. Wouldn’t stop giggling.” Weird boy, really, but she’d take amazement over fear, especially in an already skittish (affectionate) baby.

Another boom overhead. Arvis’ shoulders hiked. “What would you and Lady Cigyun do when it stormed?” she asked.

He shrugged. “We would wait it out together. She’d tell me stories until one of us fell asleep.”

“I do not know a lot of-”

“I do not expect you to.” He reached in to touch Azel, and she held her breath. No fuss. Azel, who couldn’t do all he wanted, was as open as he could, she figured, and during the daytime, he seemed to like Arvis. Somewhat. “I told you I am here to protect  _ you  _ from the storm. The stories are mine to tell.”

She smiled. “Of course, my lord.”

He, in fact, did not tell her any. After a one-sided conversation with Azel, he kicked his boots off at the foot of her bed. The hour was late and it seemed he was staying, which she expected, in some ways; the storm went strong. Still in his day clothes, he sat himself on her bed; winter came slowly, but it seeped through the walls of Velthomer.

She finished her dinner, stretching her legs one final time. Her bed (not even hers, really; nothing in the room was) looked tempting, but it was now sacrificed to the duke. A child sized one who stiffly spoke about his mother in sickeningly fond terms, eyes trained on the bouquet his father gave her as another poor apology, but her familiarity with the duke was a precarious situation, and she wouldn’t push it. To sleep single was lonesome, but Arvis wasn’t a normal child; Sunilda was.

She’d never be Cigyun.

But, well, her lord wasn’t stupid either. Heavy-eyed, shrunken in her seat, his clear-if-shrill voice cut through the  _ Gods let me sleep.  _ “What are you doing?” Wrangling with her quilt (the final gift from Cigyun – sadness great in her eyes as she handed it over, but for once, Cigyun did not shake, sturdy in the wrist; “I’ll never be far,” she said, and only if Sunilda had known –), Arvis stared dully at her. Valflame sat beside him on the edge of the bed, cover kin with his hair ( _ Azel’s  _ hair).

“Going to sleep, my lord.”

“Your bed seems more comfortable.” No joke, again, but the flash of light through the room highlighted the beginning of a frown.  
He was here to protect her from the storm, after all.

Sighing, “Give me a moment, my lord.”

“What did I say about that?”

“A moment,  _ Arvis _ ,” and he  _ smiled _ at how tight her voice cinched, chin straight with pride. She did not think any ungrateful thoughts about her lord, never, but if she did they would start and end with  _ brat _ . She tugged her hair back out of habit, almost long enough to do so comfortably now, and instead scratched her neck to give her temporary watch-dog a reason to not question her.

Multiple parts of her back cracked as she stood, and Arvis’ cocky grin melted into a look of  _ bodies do that _ ? Cigyun was too pretty to creak. The hearth, set to burn a few hours longer, could be tended when Azel inevitably cried his little heart out. She rubbed her face. What was she doing?

Bed.

Valflmae stole a third of the bed, leaving Arvis as the buffer between her and the tome. Good. The tome unnerved her. Still, neither she nor Arvis were particularly large individuals – though if Victor was proof, Arvis possessed the potential to be tall – and there was room for the three of them. Normally the type to sleep on her stomach, with the midwife’s voice echoing in her head about how it was a terrible idea, tonight she settled for lying stiff as a floorboard on her side, facing away from the child in her bed. She tensed, as did he, when he laid down, mimicking the position himself.

Quiet. Far from peace. The storm raged outside, the last efforts of the waning fall.

“...I hope Mother is warm.” Lord Arvis’ back rested against hers. “She chills easily.”

Sunilda stared at the hearth. “Lady Cigyun is strong.” The touch of her fingers against her back, the pass of the knife against her neck, her soft eyes.

She listened to him breathe, louder than Azel’s breath. When did dukes wake? Did his attendant know where he was? Unlikely. She observed the duke from a far during the day, and he took no joy in having servants hover over him. He ate alone in his study or sat alone (in his study) or stood alone in the gardens.

Neither spoke for a few moments. She thought he’d perhaps dozed off from the late hour, her own eyes heavy, but he stirred, his feet kicking her calves. “Sunilda?” She turned over too, laying side by side with her lord. His slim arm pressed against hers, and she wondered how much more room they could have if Valflame sat on the nightstand. Perhaps it was the tome, or maybe the boy, cooking her beneath the blanket. The fire in the room was redundant, if not for the baby dozing in his cradle. Or perhaps she wasn’t used to sharing a bed anymore.

Softly, “Yes, Arvis?” He shifted again, and she followed suit, his fingers touched to her wrist. She’d never be able to escape those eyes, huh? He was her duke, yes, but a child, too. Here, partially huddled up to her, she was reminded of that: the stature of a child with the insecurities of one.

“May I confess something?”

Odd question, but, “Yes.”

“You will not judge me for it?”

“No.” Sunilda thought of all the things she did as a child worthy of judgment. Force feeding her cousin a pill-bug was a dark mark on her childhood. What could Arvis possibly have to judge? He seemed the ideal son, all things considered.

He took a few moments before continuing. “I...know I am suppose to grieve. I’ve been reprimanded for not grieving like I should but...Father only ever hurt Mother. He was my father, but at the same time...

“I don’t miss Victor,” he admitted.

Another moment of silence, flame crackling. The flames lit up the wall, and Azel gurgled in his sleep.

Not bug eating.

She didn’t blame him. Arvis knew more than he let on, more than his youth suggested, and he seemed to have  _ some _ idea of the horrors his father wreaked. He’d voiced his concerns about no one being willing to tell him ‘what happened’ due to his age, yet he was wise. If she had a father like Victor, she didn’t think she could mourn either. Still, she did not know why she was chosen for this confessional, but had plenty on her own mind.

“May I speak plainly?” Sunilda asked.

“I suppose so,” he answered tiredly. Long talks for a long boy. His head tilted towards her, laying on her shoulder. Her breath stuck in her throat. Lady Cigyun wanted this. Someone needed to take care of Lord Arvis.

Sunilda avoided explaining the...details of what happened to her. She’d dodged it since Arvis first started talking to her, but, well, she dumbed it down. “I’ve...tried to be mad at him. Your father.” The breath initially caught in her throat got squeezed out as everything in her tightened. “Anger seemed like a good response. Being angry for what he’s done to me seems natural. The priests tell me I can’t get over it until I let go of my anger.”

Arvis nodded, listening. “Try as I might, I’m not angry. Anger tires me. I’ve never been for it and I wish I could be angry because the priests tell me healing from anger is easy once I acknowledge it but...” she sighed, squeezing her hand into a loose fist. “I’ve felt  _ wrong  _ ever since, and I don’t know if I’ll ever feel okay again. But it’s what I feel, and no one can take that from me.”

It sounded stupid, out in the open.

Thunder cracked over them. Arvis flinched.

What was the point again?

“Your feelings are yours, Arvis, not the attendants.”

Arvis’ knee dug into her thigh. “For a woman who cannot read, you have a lot of musings.”

She smiled. A wet spot pooled in the corner of the ceiling. She knew how to fix that, didn’t she? “Thank you, my lord.”

vi.

Azel cried, and he cried quite a bit. Sunilda did her best to console him, holding his head against her shoulder and rocking him; it dampened some of the cries. He wailed and sobbed and gnawed at his thumb with a fury, only shushing some when she was on her feet. He was hot to the touch and barely wanted to nurse, angry when he did. She begged him to tell her what was wrong, head and heart aching (Lord Arvis informed her that Azel, in fact, could not speak, and she was wasting her time asking).

Sunilda wanted to cry, too.

He cried himself to sleep, fist still jammed in his mouth, and she lowered him into the bassinet. Her hands shook, and she leaned against the edge of her bed. He cried, and cried, but it was no fault of his own. He had no other way to tell her how he felt.

She felt the frustration tighten into a knot in her jaw. His anger was out of his control. Hers wasn’t.

She laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Close her eyes for a moment, take a break, hope the pounding behind her eyes disappeared. There was no telling how long Azel could sleep. He could wake up at any moment and they’d both be crying. She was due nowhere, and so she kicked her boots off, pulling her feet up onto the bed, arm beneath her head. A break. A quick rest for her eyes. A quick peace.

The sky was dark when she woke up; she rose and shut the curtains fully. For once, the floor was not too cold on her feet. The hearth died in her sleep, and she lit it if only to keep Azel warm. Winter stole babies, but she wouldn’t lose hers.

Hers, and hers alone.

Against her better judgment, she roused Azel for a moment to check that he still breathed, and he beat his free fist against her shoulder in protest, a whine bubbling in his throat. He made no attempt to feed, and she did not force it. She kissed him, tightening her sloppy swaddle, and left him to stew, gently rocking the cradle. They’d try again before she went to bed for the night.

It felt late. What time was it? She’d miss dinner, too preoccupied with consoling Azel, and her mouth was dry. Was it safe to get a drink? A quick walk to the kitchen and rifling through the pantry would take ten minutes, max, and she could be back before Azel was any wiser. She dreaded leaving him, but she was alone in Velthomer, on her own, at the end of the day. Azel needed her strong, and food equaled strength.

Carefully, she eased her foot off the curved bottom of the bassinet. “Mama’ll be right back,” she promised, eyes focused on the way his fist almost fell out of his mouth, held solely by a little knuckle gripped between his lips, his barely-there nose obscured by the rest of his hand, the touch of his lashes to his cheeks, the hint of drool sliding past his chin.

He was beautiful, and he was hers.

Shoving her feet back into the confines of her boots and wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she poked her head out of her room. Empty, naturally, easing some of the knot in her stomach. Velthomer’s nightlife was limited by a lord who got heavy-eyed after dinner and bath. She shut the door quietly behind her, palming the key in hand to make sure she had it.

Quick and quiet steps took her down the halls, feeling the fires of the kitchen warm the cold air. She slipped through the doorway. It was her right, wasn’t it? More than a maid anymore, little Azel’s mother, she had a right to meals (everyone did – still, she remembered hunger).

She wasn’t there to bother anyone, though. Bread, butter, salted meat, because she most certainly knew how to cook, she just didn’t want to bother at this hour. She set water to boil, counting the seconds in her head. She hated leaving him, inseparable almost. Who could she trust in Velthomer? Lord Arvis and Magda encouraged the use of a nurse – the way things went for the nobility – but the blood in her veins was that of peasantry.

Sunilda, keeping count in her head, opened the cupboards. Obnoxiously short and unfortunately down growing, she forced herself onto the tips of her toes, reaching mostly blindly on the shelf for any box of tea leaves. The first box she touched slipped away from her, and she sighed loudly, fingers stretched to their max. Hopefully Azel grew tall enough to help her.

Lord Azel?

A worry for another day.

She pulled down a box, sliding the lid off. There weren’t many left, but enough to make a cup, she figured.

“What’re you doin’ in my kitchen?” A loud-for-the-time voice filled her ears. She jumped, falling back onto the heels of her feet, hands tightening on the box unevenly, causing it to tilt and spill on the wooden counter. The back door was seven steps to the right, and she could rush back to her room if she went through the stables, around the garden, and squeezed through the laundry. Her eyes darted around the kitchen, seeing the knife drawer two steps to her left.

She took a shaky breath, turning around. It was just the cook. Just the cook. She knew Telor to be married, but did that mean anything? “I’m hungry,” she said. Rarely leaving her room after dark, she’d forgotten which servants roamed at night.

Telor stood tall and thick. She did not think she could fight him off. “Oh, it’s you. Didn’t know you with yer hair down. Want me to make you somethin’?”

One step to the right, eyes still on him, she brushed the leaves into a pile, not wanting to waste. “Didn’t think the kitchen was open,” she said. Steam tickled her skin, sticking her bangs to her temples.

“Normally ain’t, but Prince Kurth is coming tomorrow, and Lord Arvis wants our best.”

“ _ The _ Prince Kurth?”

“Aye.” Sunilda struggled to believe the rumors, but she knew the truths. “No one tell you?” She shook her head. Telor rolled his sleeves up, heavy with hair. He made no steps towards her, but her back dug into the counter. “You up for a purpose?” he asked. He felt  _ safe _ , keeping his distance, and she knew in Victor’s death the more unsavory members of the staff likewise got the boot.

Arvis would believe her.

Letting her eyes turn to the leaves, she swept them into the box. The water still boiled. It would need let up soon. “Finally got my son to fall asleep, and I went with him,” she said. “Bread for the prince?”

He nodded. Telor passed by her, and if he noticed the way she flinched, he thankfully did not react. “Gotta send a girl to harass the chickens later. Lord Arvis found out what the prince likes. The boy fussy for a reason?” His voice echoed out of the pantry, and it had been a while since she gossiped in a kitchen.

“I don’t know.” She didn’t. “He won’ feed. He’s sucking his thumb like crazy. Cries and cries and cries and won’t stop for anything.”

Telor hummed. She glanced at him, found him focused on his work, and she focused on her tea. Kitchen business wasn’t hers, but she wasn’t useless. Careful to not burn herself, she prepared her tea, rag wrapped around her hand. Neither spoke for a few minutes; she’d been away for too long, and while she’d never cooked, she served, so she knew where the trays were. Passing behind Telor, still keeping an eye on him, she opened another cabinet, and reached for the bottom shelf. No one would miss a cracked tray.

It felt natural on her hip, though she avoided serving when she had the choice, and now she did. Creep back to her room, eat in silence by the fire, and try to fill Azel’s belly. He needed to feed. He needed to survive.

“How old?”

She stacked her dinner on the tray. “Seven months.” Growing every day. Surviving every day.

“’ave you checked his gums?” His gums? “Mine started teething around that time. No one tell you?”  _ Oh.  _ Teething. Her silence must’ve said something, must’ve outed her ignorance, his head turning towards her.

“I’ll check,” she answered shortly. Despite her best efforts, they made eye contact. He did not look at her with pity. She appreciated it.

Telor wiped his hands off; her grip tightened on the tray. He, in spite of his size, slipped gracefully past her. He rummaged in the pantry, and she supposed she had a moment to spare. Plenty of moments, in fact. Still, she watched. She’d been close to ease, but knew better. Velthomer was not a place of relaxation. “Are you allowed out?” he asked.

Her nose crinkled. “Of course I’m allowed out.” Not that she often left.

“’m just asking. There’s a shop near the gate that has trinkets for chewing. All my kids liked it. And they-” a loud  _ thunk _ and some cursing. Must’ve hit his something. She tapped her foot as he came back out, rubbing his head. “They liked this. Honey. Good on their gums, but not too much.” She knew honey to be expensive, especially towards end of the best season, but there was no expense too high for Azel. The lordling of Velthomer.

He handed it towards her. She sat it on her tray. “Are we done?” she asked. Telor nodded, stepping to his work again, and she kept her eyes on him as she backed up to the door.

“Oh, and Sun?”  _ Sun. _ Too familiar. She stopped. “If ya need anything else, I’m usually here.”

_ Sun _ . They barely knew each other.

She didn’t say anything. It was getting late; it was getting early. Azel needed her. She left the kitchen, taking the multitudes of steps back to her room. Corner this, corner that – Cigyun, come home; Azel, feed – chill in her bones. Her eyes unfocused, tired to her core, and she clocked back in as someone bumped into her. A loud  _ thud _ hit the floor followed by the sound of wood on stone, accompanied by a head bumping against her chest and arm. She flinched at the contact, tensing up to her ears until her eyes looked down and, through the dark, saw the flash of Velthomer red.

Fixing the goodies on the tray, she touched her hand to his shoulder. “Grab your tome,” she said carefully; how much could she say, how far could she push? He stooped to gather it. “Why are you up, my lord?”

“You were not in your room,” he said, speaking through his teeth. “I went to your room and you were not there.”

“I went to get dinner.”

“I thought you left,” he stated plainly. Oh. She felt him slightly tremble. She wouldn’t have been the first woman to flee Velthomer in the night.

She touched her knuckles to his cheek. “I am right here, Lord Arvis. What could you need from me at this hour?” she asked, voice level for the night, eyes trained on the wall. Lord Arvis did not move from his cemented position against her.

The warmth of Valflame ruminated between them. “I was brushing my hair for bed. The brush keeps getting stuck.”

“It’s late to be getting ready for bed.”

“I am busy,” he said, and just  _ barely  _ leaned into her hand. Storing the memory away for later, she brushed her hand back down to his shoulder, carefully pushing him away. He took the hint, and they walked in comfortable silence back to her room.

She slotted the key in the door, opening it quietly. Arvis stuttered in, dragging his feet, and he made himself at home ( _ well).  _ Valflame on the nightstand, boots on the floor, and by the light of the fireplace he seemed  _ early  _ in the process of getting ready for bed, still wearing his clothes she saw him in before dinner. Azel slumbered peacefully, she noticed while chewing on a mouthful of bread, and she wouldn’t take that from him, not yet.

“Where’s your comb, my lord?” He sat himself on the bed, reaching under her pillow. She put logs on the fire. Sunilda saw the exhaustion in his eyes, too. Leaving a piece of salted meat to stew between her gum and teeth, she moved to sit behind him on the bed. He offered the comb over his shoulder, and she took it carefully; his hands were smooth, and she wondered if his hands would ever be as rough as hers.

Neither flinched.

She pulled his hair back from his ears. His hands clenched and unclenched on his knees. Childhood hair brushing gave her nightmares. Sunilda, hoping to not relive her own screaming fits from her youth, started away from the top of his skull. It wasn’t the most efficient, she knew, and it wasn’t the way Cigyun told her to do it, but she’d never be Cigyun.

Lord Arvis broke the silence.  _ Just _ Arvis, she reminded herself. “Prince Kurth is coming tomorrow,” he said quietly. His shoulders tensed with the first pass of the comb. She’d no desire to hurt him, but sometimes, pain was inevitable.

“So I’ve heard.”

“How?”

She thought of Telor. “I have my ways.” He tried to twist his head to look at her, but she laid her hand back on his jaw to keep his head forward. Had she done this with her mother, exactly? Time before Velthomer felt so far away.

His hair, soft to the touch, resisted the teeth of the fine comb. Wealth. One, two, three, four, five. Switch. One, two, three, four, five. Switch. “My uncle says I am too young to rule. He wants to take Velthomer from me until I’m older.” She hummed, feigning interest. “I can use Valflame. I bear the blood. I’ve managed in Vict-Father’s death.” The slip up again. She didn’t blame him.

“Why wait until now to say something?” She knew little of politics, only knowing her own precarious situation. 

He picked at his trousers. “The rumors of Mother’s disappearance are being treated as truth,” Arvis _ seethed _ with the venom of a grown man (the venom of – no, no, he wasn’t – sons weren’t their fathers). Despite her own hopes, Cigyun  _ was _ gone from Velthomer, unfortunately. Sunilda did not want to think it so, but she was not in the duchy. It did not mean she was _ gone.  _ “A child duke without guardian is...a problem. No one will-”

“- take Valflame from you. I know.” Another knot, another wince, another set of five, rinse and repeat, and she murmured an apology. “Is your attendant not brushing you nightly?” she asked. His hair had grown since that fateful day in the closet, clipping decently past his shoulders, and she wondered who would cut it.

Seemingly thrown off by the sudden change of conversation, he stammered, undoubtedly ready to launch a tirade about his uncle,  _ building  _ to it. “Why must women always blather about hair?” he asked, a hint of the Arvis she saw during the day. “And no. I don’t like her.”

She raised a brow. “Do you like  _ me _ ?” she asked. He didn’t like his attendant enough to let her touch him, but here they were.

“More than most,” he admitted, venom replaced with Cigyun’s tenderness. The brush caught on a tight knot as her fingers slipped, red tangled around the teeth, and he said something he most definitely heard from a servant. She apologized again, squeezing his shoulder. Between his admission and his outburst, his tense shoulders sagged like old furniture. He moved, some, crossed legs pulled up. “More than most,” he repeated.

Sunilda smiled.

They sat in an understanding (he venting about the upcoming day, she listening) as she brushed his hair out. Each crackle in the fireplace acted like a clock. The full burning of a log passed before the brush smoothly passed through his hair. Her fingers went, too. “Do you have a moment to spare?”

“I’m here, are I not?”

“May I braid your hair? It’ll be easier tomorrow night.” It been so for her, at least. Some days she missed her hair.

Arvis scoffed, “Who said I’d be here tomorrow?” He didn’t shrug her off as she set down his comb, raking her fingers in his trestles; there was enough for a little braid, nothing compared to what she could’ve worn.

They’d broken a few boundaries already.

One, two, three. Three over two, one over two-three. “I can brush you nightly or you can cry weekly in my quarters. The choice is yours.” No protest sounding to her ears, she settled into the easy rhythm of braiding. She’d have to wake him in a few hours, so she hurried up. He needed to be well rested for Prince Kurth ( _ him)  _ and his scheming uncle. He needed to be well rested for Cigyun’s return. What mother wanted a boy with bags under his eyes? “...if you’re going to look after me until Lady Cigyun returns, may I return the favor?” she offered.

Part of her expected Arvis to yell at her. The same part of her accepted it as a risk. She’d heard the tales of the maids who’d been let go for whispering about their missing mistress. “...you aren’t her,” he said, deceptively calm. She listened for anything in his voice that gave away his real feelings, and was reminded again: a child.

“And I never want to be her,” Sunilda assured. How could she be? Beautiful, distant yet kind, serene with a steady smile: the most tolerable part of Velthomer for the longest of times. “But it is you and I and Azel until she comes home.” She pinched the end of his braid between two fingers, leaning forward. It had to be the boy who radiated heat, not the tome.

He met her eyes. They’d never be this free in front of anyone. Perhaps Azel. “I suppose so,” he agreed. “Mother would want both of us to be happy,” but then why would she leave? What could be out there worth leaving her son for? Victor was gone. His women were gone. Who else remained to drive her away? Here they were: Arvis’ claim to his dukedom shaken by his tentative status as orphan, Sunilda left with two children to care for who were both poor at expressing their desires. Cigyun should’ve been here to guide Arvis with the same kind hand she’d held Sunilda’s hand with.

But she wasn’t.

She was gone.

Her jaw throbbed.

Arvis settled back against her. A child who lugged a tome around half his size. Tired. “You have me until she is home, my lord.” He mumbled something similar, and his face threatened to match his eyes. “Until then.”

**Author's Note:**

> sunilda's name is based off of svanhildr, the mythological daughter of sigurd and gudrun, a woman accused of infidelity by her king-husband and then killed via horse.
> 
> this is based somewhat off of Treasure, that one kaga interview, what i've read about the oosawa manga (having never read it myself), and the suzuki novel which say azelle's mother is: 1) poor 2) cigyun's favorite maid 3) differentiated from victor's affairs 4) raped to hurt cigyun 5) set to be violently removed from velthomer and 6) One of the Good Ones, in regards to arvis + women
> 
> and some good ol' headcanons. i've smudged the timeline a little compared to the suzuki novel, along with arvis' other half siblings, plus a few other details, and some of cigyun's character (what little she has) with regards to the affairs. there's more details but i want to keep this short/this story period was only suppose to be ~2500 words. i, myself, got messed up in my own ruffled timeline, so, uh, if you noticed, just smile and wave :)
> 
> thanks for reading <3


End file.
